The Gin Diaries
by GranthamGal
Summary: Short drabbles about the characters and their escapades, each involving a liquor of some sort. Inebriation ensues. *Some may contain series 3 spoilers*
1. Violet

A/N: An idea that was started by "KingdomHeartsNerd." I'll likely write one for most of the characters, but I'd happily take suggestions. Enjoy! Reviews much appreciated :)

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That dreadful woman was back at Downton.

"Carson—" Violet motioned to her empty glass as he passed with the wine decanter. Though already three glasses in—and only midway through dinner—she would need to fortify herself if she was to spend the rest of the evening with Martha Levinson.

She closed her eyes and took a sip, relishing in the brief lull in conversation, until Martha's loud drawl started up again; this time declaring an announcement: She was extending her stay by three weeks. Cora clapped her hands in delight and smiled her overly enthusiastic smile as Violet tried to suppress a groan. Luckily Carson passed by a moment later and, clutching his arm, she held up her glass in desperation. No one seemed to notice, except Mary who smirked and raised her eyebrow as Carson refilled her wine.

"Really Granny, you mustn't drown your sorrows too much. You'll need your wits about you if Grandmamma intends to stay. And besides, she'll drink us all under the table anyway." She nodded toward Martha, who was laughing obnoxiously at something Robert said while happily sipping the large cocktail Carson had made her before dinner.

Violet drained her glass as Martha cackled once more.

Dreadful, dreadful woman.


	2. Matthew

"_That depends. I'd have to know more about the princess and the sea monster in question." _

Matthew tried to keep his voice even-toned as he raised his glass to his lips, taking minor delight in having silenced Lady Mary Crawley. She sat beside him, staring icily, as the rest of the family quickly turned the conversation away from Greek Mythology.

Matthew was never one to drink, but sitting so close to Lady Mary, he had needed something to calm his nerves a bit. Never had a woman had such an effect on him, though he was not sure precisely what the effect was.

It was only their second dinner at Downton, and their limited interactions had become increasingly hostile. Apparently, now, he was a sea monster. Nevertheless, she was intriguing—and beautiful—so as he tossed back his second glass of port in the drawing room he smiled, as she looked his way.

Lady Mary had rolled her eyes and crossed the room in response.

He had just asked for a fourth glass, when his mother insisted it was time to go.

"I quite like Lady Mary, she has very nice hair. And her voice is delightful." Matthew babbled as his mother helped him up the stairs to his bedroom. The third glass had really done him in.

"Is that the liquor talking or you?" She inquired, chuckling at her inebriated son.

"…Me, definitely me." He murmured in response.


	3. Carson

Smoke seemed to fill every inch of the dimly lit music hall. People were all around, talking and laughing, but the familiar feeling of isolation—of loneliness—had already crept its way back in that night, as it always seemed to in these dark haunts.

He coughed, the smoke finally catching the back of his throat, and took a long sip of the gin someone had poured for him. It tasted cheap, and of nights long past.

One more sip and the glass was empty. They went down too easily, these days.

Standing, he could feel his muscles ache in protest. He was getting too old for this. Too old to be up on a stage, night after night, pretending it was still all right. With a sigh, motioning for the barkeep, he sat back down. One more and then it was time to go.

Perhaps it really was time. Time for something new. A change from the gin soaked evenings spent in pubs almost as dark as the places his mind seemed to travel to every night. And that ad in the paper had looked interesting: a position as first footman in a great country house. It seemed a rather enticing prospect.

After all, he could not be a Cheerful Charlie forever.


	4. Cora

Cora spends her first two months at Downton watching her new husband and studying him curiously. His voice, smile, and touch are all foreign to her; all taking the place of the life she once knew.

Two months into their marriage, though, and she is tired of observing. She is tired of sleeping alone in a large bed, tired of longing for her husband's attention, and tired of pretending she is not pretending.

She has a right to more; she decides late one evening, after another dull dinner party. Listening to the pages of her husband's book turn every few moments in the small room next door, she decides just what to do.

Emboldened, by both desperation and her American spirit, she sneaks downstairs to the library. A few moments later she creeps quietly back up the stairs with a bottle of Robert's favorite scotch—a peace offering of sorts.

Knocking softly on the adjoining door, she waits, clutching the bottle tightly and wondering if it was all a mistake. But the door opens and she is met with an unfamiliar expression—a smile.

Glass after glass, shared with giggles and desirous looks, they go from miles apart to only a few inches away all in the span of an evening.

She feels his lips press against hers and the taste of alcohol on his tongue quickly makes her breathless.

The next morning Cora awakens with a splitting headache. But, the pain quickly subsides when she realizes she is wrapped in her husband's dressing gown.

The husband who is finally asleep beside her.


	5. Rosamund

A/N: I've always thought Rosamund just might be a closet drinker. Thank you so much to those who reviewed!

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"_Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn." _

It was the only coherent thought, or word, that she could think of as she sipped from the bottle she'd stolen from the library.

_Sip_

Mary was right, she supposed, it was a lucky escape. Better to find one's beau in the arms of the help before a wedding, after all. But now, she had neither a beau nor a maid. And worse, her bottle of whiskey was nearly empty as well. Lucky escape, was it?

_Sip_

Perhaps.

_Sip_

Yet again, Mama proved right. She somehow always was. It was absolutely infuriating how she seemed to see right through anyone and anything put in front of her. Why couldn't she have been wrong, just this once? No, no, Mama was never wrong and never would be. It was no good to wish things were different.

_Sip. Sip. Sip. _

Tomorrow it was back to London. Back to a world of pretend smiles and pretend laughter. Back to a world she loathed so desperately these days. Being alone in a big house with her piles and piles of money was not the peaceful life it sounded. Not anymore, at least.

_Sip_

Instead, the maddening silence seemed to echo throughout the halls, a constant reminder of everything that was no longer there. No husband's shoes walking down the corridor in the evening. No crinkle of his morning paper. No sounds of murmured adoration late at night behind the bedroom walls. Now, it was just the absence of once familiar sounds in a house that had once held such happy noise.

Silence reigned in the Painswick household, and after yet another botched attempt at remedying the problem, it would continue to.

_Sip. _


	6. Tom

The next morning he wakes up with few memories from the party.

It hadn't tasted any different. How could he have known that pompous, overwrought, jealous man would think to pull a prank so horribly childish—and so horribly embarrassing.

The family had stood up, that he remembers. They yelled something he can't quite remember and Matthew had clapped him on the shoulder. No one was angry with him, except himself. How could he have been so easily tricked, he wondered as he sat up in bed. He knew this trip would be trying but he had no idea he needed to guard his drinks. Coming here, perhaps, was a mistake.

Sybil was already awake and gone. Left on her pillow was a note summoning him to Crawley House. What Mrs. Crawley would want with him, he had no idea. But in an effort to appear agreeable and as though the previous night's debacle had not shaken him, he slowly picked himself up. If nothing else, he couldn't let those people—any of them—think they had successfully embarrassed him or diminished him.

He would do it for Sybil. He would do it because he had no other choice. He would do it all because deep down, he wanted them to be _his_ family too.

He certainly would not leave his drinks unattended in future, though.


	7. Robert

Robert is just shy of twenty when he kneels down and proposes late one summer afternoon. She smiles a brilliant smile and holds out her hand, tentatively, as he slips the sparkling ring on her finger. Fear reverberates through his body as her gaze locks on him. He thinks about kissing her, he still has not done so, but stops, afraid she'll think him ungentlemanly. He feels bad enough, already; marrying her without loving her seems the most ungentlemanly thing of all.

He walks her back to the house, hand in hand, but drops her grasp once they reach the doors. He will not see her again that evening, as he is entertaining some friends.

His friends arrive, a raucous and rowdy bunch, with bottles of scotch, gin and brandy in tow. Bottles are opened, toasts are made to the newly engaged viscount, and as the drinks flow, jokes are made about him and his lovely bride-to-be. They laugh and make suggestive remarks, knowing full well he has not been brave enough to kiss her yet.

The party breaks up and they leave an inebriated Robert on the settee in the library. As soon as he is alone he hops up and makes his way upstairs—on a mission of sorts.

He knocks three solid knocks on her door in the forbidden "ladies corridor." She answers, her sleepy expression turning to bewilderment upon discovering her new fiancée, drunk and disheveled, at her bedroom door.

He leans down and presses his lips against hers. The briefest connection, he pulls away, sheepishly, a second later and murmurs an apology.

She kisses his cheek in response and whispers _goodnight_.

He grins all the way back to his room, no longer feeling fear, but for the first time, excitement.

He has already begun to fall.


	8. Sybil

It's their third night in Dublin when Tom suggests they go out to the local pub in town. The transition has been startling, to say the least, and he insists they go—explaining that some local color will help her acclimate more quickly.

The noise upon entering the small dimly lit building assaults her every sense. Her eyes blink to adjust to the low light as Tom guides her, by hand, through the boisterous crowds. They make it to a table in the corner just as someone gets up onto a table and begins singing a rather colorful rendition of "Erin Go Bragh," at the top of his lungs. Tom only grins and wanders off toward the bar, returning a few moments later with two pints of beer.

It takes a few tries before she is coaxed into sipping the curious amber liquid. Scrunching her nose upon tasting it, she immediately puts the glass back down and makes a face. It was certainly not like the claret she was used to drinking with dinner back at home. But, she tentatively takes another sip, and then another, and before long both their glasses are empty and Tom is swinging her around the room where they, and the other patrons, have made an impromptu dance floor.

They walk home slowly, and very carefully, along the quiet cobblestone streets several hours later. He drops her off at his mother's door with one last smile and a lingering kiss; thanks in part to their considerably lowered inhibitions.

Finally closing the door behind her several minutes later, she sighs, happily, knowing she could quite easily get used to all this. It's not home yet, but it soon will be, and she knows with absolute certainty, if nothing else, they must make jaunts to the pub a very regular occurrence.


	9. Edith

*Series three spoilers*

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She looks around and cannot help but grin; a gleeful expression she is still not quite comfortable wearing, but has nevertheless been sporting as of recent. Champagne flutes all raised in the air, toasting her happiness. Her and her _husband's _happiness, to be specific. The bubbling liquid glitters in the afternoon sun under the large tents out on the lawn. For the first time everyone assembled under the tents is there to celebrate her and her life. The flutter of activity, her mother's tears, and the happy looks of approval from her sisters are all confirmation that this joyous day is finally real.

She is dizzy with happiness as she takes a long sip and gazes at the people around her. Feeling a light touch on her arm, she turns to find her _husband_ who has returned with a fresh glass for both of them. "_You look lovely," _he says with a smile so sweet she feels as though she needs to sit down.

Late that night in their new home, well her new home, they pop open one last bottle—a toast to the future, he explains, handing her one last glass. They tap their glasses lightly in celebration and watch as the tiny bubbles rise to the top. A toast to her new life, a toast to the one she has left behind, and most importantly, and most happily, a toast to the man sitting beside her.


	10. Mary

A/N: By request, Mary.

* * *

"_Mary Josephine Crawley, what on earth do you think you are doing?"_

Her Papa's voice reverberates angrily through the quiet library. Flanked by a smug Edith and a wide-eyed Mama, he stands there waiting for an answer. Momentarily stunned at being found out—though most certainly thanks to Edith—she pauses and straightens up, clears her throat, and smiles faintly.

"_Having a drink." _She replies in an even tone, though her hand is shakily gripping the brandy snifter. His anger is building by the second, but there is no backing down now. In one final act of defiance she lifts the glass to her lips and takes a sip, daring any of them to stop her.

A flood of shouts fills the library as her father yells something about propriety and decorum and _"how this is most unladylike behavior for a fourteen year old girl." _She stands there silently as he shouts and watches as her mother sends Edith out of the room. No doubt she is already en-route to her room to record the rare triumph in her sad little diary.

When they ask why, she is uncharacteristically lost for words. How can you explain one small act of defiance that stands for so much more? Or explain that one stolen glass of Brandy and one defiant sip holds so much pent up anger and so many disillusions. They do not understand—or do not want to understand. The talk of marriage has only come up recently. Murmurs of tradition, of legacy, and of the Crawley name have become ever-present whispers now that she and Patrick are getting older.

She relishes in the look of shock on her father's face as she throws the glass on the floor and runs out of the room. Throwing herself on her bed, she is comforted by the singular thought that runs through her mind.

"_They cannot make me do it." _


	11. Mrs Hughes

A/N: For Antigone :)

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It was a warm summer day in 1898 when they quite literally ran into one another for the first time. Mr. Carson, well, Charles as he was known, was carrying an armful of silver serving platters down the stairs when he nearly knocked the young woman with the dark eyes and serious expression right off her feet.

It took several months and repeated apologies before he felt comfortable speaking with the new head-housemaid again. They began to speak infrequently about inane topics: Weather. The family. Dinner menus. All the daily mediocrities that would otherwise go unnoticed. Over hushed tones in random hallways and across the large table in the servant's hall they trade stories and jokes. They are both older than the others and they feel a sort of unspoken camaraderie as the weeks, months, and then years slip by.

Eventually, the relationship shifts to a comfortable familiarity. One evening, after a rather horrendous dinner party, they commiserate over a glass of wine, a glass they _"deserved after such a long day," _she remembers him saying.

They toast to Downton and then to each other.

Their daily lives continue in much the same fashion, but with this new little habit becoming a fixture for both of them. They look forward to the quiet moments at the day's end—and though neither would ever admit to it, the count down the last minutes of each day, waiting until the appropriate time to steal away to his office away from the others.

"_Goodnight, Mr. Carson." _She calls quietly over her shoulder after another evening of conversation and French red. He looks at her, all the unspoken words bubbling up in his throat. Should he? Could he? No, it is but a fleeting thought.

She is Mrs. Hughes and he is Mr. Carson, after all.

"_Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes." _


	12. Martha

A/N: I've been meaning to update this for quite a bit. Sorry for the delay! This installment contains spoilers from series 3.

* * *

She sat at her vanity trying on earrings and sipping the _Manhattan_ beside her. When she asked the butler to make her something new and exciting for her evening cocktail, she had never expected the results to be quite this marvelous. Nearly ready for the Astor's big fete that evening, Martha put the finishing touches on her ensemble before draining her glass and admiring herself once more in the mirror.

She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Her maid entered, carrying a telegram.

Telegrams were rarely delivered this late anymore, and in fact, most of her communication was via telephone. It could only be from person. Turning it over to check the address, and expecting to see Cora's name, she frowned upon seeing it was Mary's name scrawled on the corner of the note. Good lord, if it was another plea for money to keep Downton, she was going to hit the roof. She tore open the delicate paper suspiciously, scanning the lines of text inside.

It was a blow to the chest. A sudden intense feeling of nausea and dizziness. Everything around her was suddenly spinning. Sybil. Oh, god, Sybil. _Sybil. _She crumpled the note and let it float to the bedroom floor.

Clutching the vanity for support, the tears came faster than expected. She hadn't cried in years and she was tougher than nearly anyone she knew. But Sybil, darling Sybil, was dead and so she could cry. At least for a little while. Sybil was young, so very young, and sweet. It couldn't possibly be. She was supposed to save them all—supposed to be the one to pull them into the modern world and prove them all wrong. She was the little girl with her mother's blue eyes and her father's soft laugh.

It couldn't possibly be.

Eventually she picked herself up from the vanity and poured another drink from the decanter left by the bedside table. Gulping it down in one swift movement, she only felt the pain in her heart intensify.

Nothing could possibly take the pain away. And so, she poured one more drink and turned out the light. If she could not make the pain go away, perhaps she could just numb it, at least for a little while.


	13. Isobel

A/N: So this is the last installment in my little drabble set. It contains some spoilers for series three. Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed!

* * *

Time had passed and carried them all with it.

She had remained in the village and done her duty. Her duty to Matthew and to herself. She made a weekly appearance at dinner and continued to work. Eventually the gripping sadness turned to a dull ache, ever present in the background of her days. But as the years slipped by and her grandson grew, it seemed a little easier each day. To everyone, it seemed, it was easier every day.

Tom and little Sybbie had moved to the Estate Managers Cottage; his daughter being the first descendent of the Crawleys to attend the village school, she knew the family couldn't be more proud of the darling little girl. And Sybil would certainly be endlessly pleased with the daughter who had no use for a governess or learning French. The spitting image of her mother, she often wondered how Tom made it through each day. But he had, and he did. Tonight he stood chatting with Edith, both sipping the fashionable new cocktails Mary had learned to make.

Edith, just in from London, looked fresh faced and happy. Her eyes glittered each time she spoke of her work, of her life in the city and of her family. No longer a young girl clinging desperately to the coattails of her sister, she stood tall and strong, sipping her drink and laughing as Tom made jokes.

Robert and Cora were locked in the corner on the opposite side of the room. Giggling and passing secrets between them, they look so very happy wrapped up in one another. And when their private conversation passed and they turned to look at the assembled group, she watched them press their hands together and exchange a proud smile. They had come through it all, older, perhaps wiser, intensely grateful for their family and for their lives.

And then there was Mary. Mary who was hunched in by the fireplace, giggling conspiratorially with her son and Sybbie as the three no doubt planned a trick on one of the other adults in the room. Her son cried out as Mary tickled him, whispering something in his ear that made him grin widely.

The little boy who came from her little boy had brought them all so much joy.

Five now, he was bright, sharp and the spitting image of his mother. It made it easier, in a way. Because looking at him, his dark eyes and hair, they only saw him.

Not his father and not the pain of their loss. Just him.

It was Mary who stood finally and located her long discarded champagne flute and raised it in celebration. She offered a brief toast with hopes for a wonderful new year and the promise of health and happiness for them all.

The adults raised their glasses as the children clapped excitedly.

Time passes, she mused, taking a sip of champagne and tousling her grandson's hair as he ran past, Sybbie in pursuit.

Yes, regardless of everything around them, life would go on. It would carry them along and age them; it would make them grow and learn and fade.

It would all go on.


End file.
